Aftermath
by Helena Gray
Summary: Summary: J/C face some demons. A follow-up to "Workforce", parts I & II, written from C's perspective.


Disclaimer: I don't own these lovely characters - just borrowed them for a bit, for my own selfish enjoyment. No copyright infringement intended. A huge, appreciative thanks to all the wonderful fic writers out there, for continuing and extending our enjoyment of this series, and for inspiring me to take up fic writing again. I have several stories in the works, but this is my first post. Feedback very much appreciated (though please go easy on this newbie for now!).

Summary: J/C face some demons. A follow-up to "Workforce", parts I & II. Written from C's perspective. I'm rolling with the notion that there's some healing to do after Quarra...

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**Aftermath - Part 1/1**

We resume our course, leaving Quarra behind.

Kathryn sits beside me on the bridge, like it's any other day, and a casual onlooker would probably judge everything perfectly normal - we're good at that. 

I decide to give her some space. I can tell she needs it - needs time to process. And maybe I need it, too.

It was not easy, witnessing her other life. Watching her live that other life. And not because I wasn't a part of it, not because everything we _were_ ceased to exist in that life (though I'll admit, that was no picnic). It was seeing her _so very_ _happy_ - more relaxed and at ease than I've ever seen her, in fact. _That_ was hard, and it stabs at my heart even still. In that other life, her smile came easily, her laughter flowed freely, and _she had love _- a lover, a companion. She had what her duty (or her interpretation of it, anyway) prevents her from having, and it kills me to know she can't be that happy here, in _this_ life. The real one. _Well, she *could* be _- but that path is laden with dragons of all kinds, and I can't help but to wonder if it's too late to slay them, after all these years.

We go through the motions during the day, performing our duties with a practiced ease. We converse from our seats on the bridge, like we always do - ship's business, other odds and ends - but I can see the pain she's sure she hides. Can tell that not all of her is present in our conversations - that the speech we exchange is itself just part of the routine.

I want to comfort her. Want to reach out to her, but somehow I think that _this_ - doing what we always do at work - is the best I can do for her right now. Maybe that's my own insecurity talking - some part of me can't help but to wonder where I stand with her now. Where _we _stand. But I also know that I can't fix what she's going through_, _and it would be pretty damn arrogant to presume she'd even want me to try. She's loved and lost, and not because the relationship failed.

I miss our dinners together, but I'd been missing them for weeks, while she was down on the planet, living her other life. It's different now, though, having her back, but not really having her _here_.

I try to be the steady, reassuring presence I always am. I take on anything extra that I can, to lighten her workload. And I try to communicate without actually saying it, that I'm _here_, when she needs to talk..._if_ she needs to talk. She knows that I've had a couple of relatable experiences - granted, not on the same level as hers, but I've had my mind messed with and my reality ripped out from under me, only to have it all unravel in the end.

After it was over, after we got the crew back and their memories fully restored, I honestly thought she was going to offer Jaffen a position on _Voyager_. There's no doubt in my mind that they could have continued their relationship, even under the changed circumstances. He was...a really good guy. I have to admit that. And he really, really loved her. In all the ways that I do, and all the ways I am not permitted to.

Hell, as much as it would have killed me inside, I probably would have supported it. Probably would have welcomed him aboard, if only for the chance that she could still have some of that happiness. _Here. _In _this_ life. But of course, once her memories were restored, so were the restrictions, the _rules_. Her self-imposed exile, her need to sacrifice herself at every given opportunity. And the way she has to keep everyone at arm's length, including me (especially me?). There are times when it makes want to punch the bulkhead, because things could be so different if she'd only allow it.

Three days pass, uneventful. Which is good, because, ship-wide, there's a lot of healing to do. Kathryn isn't the only one who lived another life down on that planet. Not to mention the fact that they'd all been violated and used to create those lives, by an alien species with a frightening technology.

We've lightened workloads as much as possible, offered extended leisure time, and we have everyone rotating through sickbay for follow-up. We've no ship's counselor aboard, so the Doctor arranged for some group "therapy", which is essentially ten or so crewmembers gathering together over food and drink and talking about their experiences on Quarra. It's the best we can offer with the resources at hand. I think it's helping.

Kathryn doesn't participate, but I didn't honestly expect that she would.

I miss seeing her in our off-duty time, but still I give her space, don't push. I think she appreciates it.

She surprises me, the fifth evening after their return, by showing up outside my door. When the chime sounds, I expect Tom, inviting me to the holodeck for a game of hoverball. My heart skips a beat when I call for the doors to open and see her standing there.

I rush to my feet and invite her in. She's out of uniform and she looks a little unsure of herself as she enters my quarters.

"I...could use some company," she says, shrugging her shoulders ever-so-slightly.

"You're always welcome here, Kathryn," I tell her, seeking to put her at ease. I invite her to sit on the couch, and order two coffees from the replicator. She smiles lightly as I hand her one, then stares down at the cup, seeming to contemplate its contents.

We share an extended silence, and I decide to break it by asking her how she's doing. It's not a casual question - it carries weight, and she knows it, but it must be why she's here.

It takes her some time to answer, and she stares out the window while she considers my question, sipping at her coffee frequently. "It was such a strange experience," she says finally.

_Strange_ isn't precisely the word I'd use, but I wait for her to continue. She looks over at me briefly, and I offer silent encouragement. Let her know she can take her time.

"I mean, I was _me_, but I wasn't myself." She shakes her head at her words, seeming to declare them absurd. "It all just seemed so..._real._"

"Parts of it _were_ real, Kathryn."

She regards me then, in that way of hers, asking for more with her eyes - and there's just a hint of _challenge_ in them. I briefly contemplate steering the conversation in another, lighter direction, but she could have sought out anyone on the ship for casual banter - instead, she's here, and I know what it means. I gather my thoughts carefully.

"You were missing parts of your memory when you were on that planet, but you fell in love, and that was real."

She tilts her head, considering this, and her eyes narrow. "I'm not sure I would have 'fallen in love', had my memories been intact. I'm not sure I _could_ have. Not like _that_."

What I have to say next is harder, but I feel determined to wade through these waters, emboldened, maybe, by the fact that she came to me tonight.

"Maybe not, with the restrictions you impose upon yourself as Captain." She sits up straighter then, ready to protest - to justify said "restrictions" - but then she must realize (or read in my expression) that it's an old and very familiar refrain, and that she needn't bother, because she remains silent. Sits back against the couch, making it clear that I still have the floor.

"Kathryn, one thing very clear to me, seeing you on Quarra - seeing you with _Jaffen_ - is that, when you are free to love, you do so readily, and easily, and with all of your being. As..._hard_ as that was for me to see, it was also really nice to see. You seemed very happy there." _I want you to have that here. _I almost say it.

"I was...happy. But it wasn't _real_. It wasn't _me._"

It's difficult subject matter, because we _are_ the sum of our experiences, all of them, and hers were not fully intact on that planet. But it's not that simple, that Delta-Quadrant-stranded Captain Janeway is incapable of having a real relationship. It's about choices. I know I'm veering off, mentally, as I think about this, and it's my turn to stare out the window as I attempt to refocus. When I look back at her, I can see that a melancholy has settled on her frame, and I wonder if she's thinking about him - Jaffen.

"On Quarra, I saw a Kathryn who wasn't burdened with the responsibilities of command, or with getting her crew home. Who didn't have to constantly consider the needs of 150 people, while always putting herself on the very bottom of the priority list. That Kathryn is there, in you still. I know her - I lived with her on New Earth - at least, near the end." I pause, letting my words settle for a moment. I'm worried I'm not making complete sense to her, but I forge ahead, anyway. "You _are_ Kathryn the starship Captain. But you are also Kathryn, the woman, capable of deep love and great joy." Surely she knows this, but I think somehow it's gotten lost out here in this distant, aberrant section of the galaxy.

I search her eyes, and I think I see some measure of understanding there.

I watch as she shifts on the couch, drawing her legs up and under her. I think she is settling into our conversation, and preparing for some length to it - or perhaps she is going to change the subject. She picks up her coffee cup and finishes it off. I replicate another, hand it to her wordlessly, and she sips at it gratefully before speaking again. And this next is drawn out, as if she is reaching these thoughts in the here-and-now, out loud, with me.

"I guess, if I am being honest, that's the hardest part - that I'm forced now to sit with that truth. That I _do_ want those things - love, a relationship, a life outside of work." She gestures with her free hand, waving it in front of her as she says these things, in that classic Kathryn way. "It makes me feel guilty, given my responsibilities. But more, I worry that, the longer we're out here, the more I risk becoming _resentful_, at all I've sacrificed on the altar of duty."

She sighs and stares down at her drink, as if she's just confessed something difficult. And I guess, for her, it _was_ a challenging admission. To my mind, none of it was earth-shattering or mind-blowing, but rather, quite _human_, and very _her_. And it was nothing I couldn't have told her, myself.

I smile at her as I'm thinking this, and after a moment she looks over at me and regards my expression. She raises a questioning eyebrow, and I must now explain, but of course what plays so simply in my head is not the easiest to say out loud.

"Kathryn, I've known you for a long time. And I have always - _always_ - wished for you to find a balance between the requirements of duty and your own needs and desires. But you've spent too much time on one end of the scale. The part of you that wants things for _Kathryn_ needs some acknowledgement and attention - especially after what you just experienced on Quarra. What you _had_ on Quarra that maybe you even forgot you wanted so much..." I'm unable to verbalize the specifics, for whatever reason, but I know she gets what I'm talking about. "Honestly, as your First Officer, and your friend, I don't see any reason you shouldn't allow those things _Kathryn_ wants, here, on _Voyager_."

She's quick to respond - "We both know the reasons that here, on this ship,_ I can't_."

Her last two words are low and thick and accented, and suddenly I'm sitting on the edge of the couch, and leaning towards her, and my voice is sharper than before, because this part I must get through to her. "I don't buy it anymore, Kathryn. I think that's the _safe_ position," and I know I'm treading into dangerous waters now. "And it's the _easy_ position. It's _easier_ to keep us all at a distance, to let resentment creep in through loneliness, because it means never risking your control, and never being completely vulnerable. And most of all, it means that you're paying _a price_ - a price you seem to think you _must _pay, that you somehow imagine you _owe_, because you blame yourself for our predicament, even after all these years. For you to say, 'yes, I deserve happiness', you'd have to quit with all of that damned guilt."

She scoffs at me and she looks offended, hurt by my words, but mostly she's angry. She shakes her head, wanting to brush me off, and I feel like shit even though I know I'm right. "What I do," she says, and her voice is hard but has a growing shakiness to it. "I do for this crew. It's _all_ for them. It's _not_ easy, but it's...what I have to do!"

"But I'm telling you, Kathryn - you _deserve_ to be happy! You are _worthy_ of happiness! You can still be the Captain of this ship while pursuing that happiness - starship Captains do it all the time. You weren't wrong, when you talked about all you've sacrificed 'on the altar of duty' - it's a very apt metaphor." And now I'm in the thick of it, and it's all or nothing - "And you were right about the resentment that will come from it - because no amount of guilt, no depth of self-sacrifice will _ever_ change the fact that we're _here_, stuck in the Delta Quadrant! And there's no guarantee we'll ever make it home..."

I can tell that my words have pierced her like arrows - her frame looks even smaller than usual as she slumps into the couch, looking defeated - but then she stands suddenly, and makes like she's going to leave. I am on my feet lightning-quick, and then I'm in front of her, facing her, and I place my hands on her upper arms, holding her in place because _I'll be damned if I let her walk out of this room right now..._

"I'm sorry," I offer, and I mean it. "I'm sorry to be so blunt. But I've watched you for more than six years now, always putting everyone else first - hell, you'd lead every risky away mission if I let you. You'd patch a hull breach with your own body, without so much as a second thought. As if all that will make up for everything you imagine you've cost us!" I can see her eyes glistening as she stares at me, and I worry that I'm being too harsh. I know she knows I am _seeing_ her, and how unsettled it makes her, and I know she'll probably despise me for it when this is all over. She looks away, as if spent - but I'm not about to stop because I know this is the only way to reach her. That I'm the only one on this ship who can. And that I've let too many years slide by with these things unsaid.

"I know it's not _just_ from guilt, that you do what you do. It's also one way that you care for people, Kathryn. You love them through your duty to them. But the guilt, it _is_ there, still, and if it takes another forty years to get this ship home, it'll consume you well before then. Where will that leave us? Where will that leave _me_?" My voice trails off at this last part, and she's looking at me now. Meeting my eyes - which have begun to threaten a waterworks of their own, because _damn it all,_ I love this woman, and over the past two years she's been slipping further and further away from me, a hollow darkness creeping into the places where we used to _be_ something. It hurts like hell that it's happened - that I've allowed it to happen.

She's looking at me, her eyes dark with the sadness that resides in her very core, drawn out as it has been, and then, just above a whisper, she says, "Well, what am I to do?" It's not a question, really, because I hear in her words and see on her face her quiet resignation. Her acceptance of her fate, of her self, sacrificed once and for all - and I know, left to her own, she'd see it done.

My heart breaks at this very idea, and the way she regards it as inevitable, as fact, as fate. She chokes back a sob suddenly and then looks down at the floor, and she's shaking her head - I'm worried she's in the process of closing down, shutting me back out, and then that will be that. But then I see her body shake with another stifled sob, and I realize that "closing down" isn't possible, given how I've just forced her deepest wound out from under the bandages, exposing it and making it bleed.

I draw her face back up, lifting her chin gently, and she doesn't fight me (well, not _exactly_), even though there are tears falling down her face now and I know she'd rather they be hidden (or, at the very least, that I don't force her to look at me as they fall). Her lower lip trembles and I can't help but to rub against it with my thumb. I pull her to my chest, and hold her tightly. Because I _do_ understand, and I do know what she's given up, and why. And because I love her, flaws and all.

"What you do, Kathryn," I say softly into her hair, answering her question-that-wasn't-a-question (because I do have an answer for it, and I'll be damned if we've come this far and I don't say it), "is, _let_ _yourself be loved._ Accept love as a gift and allow it into your life." It wasn't the moment to ask her to let me be that person, though surely with the way I hold her now, I hide nothing of my feelings. "I know why it's hard here, on this ship. But it doesn't _have_ to be."

She sobs against me, the walls broken down completely, and time seems to slow, because I don't know if I've led us out of, or into, some kind of hell, from which we'll never recover. Then, after several tearful breaths she pulls away from me and meets my eyes, and suddenly I see her _wanting_, unmasked and raw, and I _ache_ to reach out and give her my everything. But I know this isn't the right time, when she is this vulnerable, and still coping with loss. So I pull her in again, knowing that if I lingered too long in her gaze I would weaken and oh-so-happily oblige her tender need. I worry that she will take it as rejection, and so I search for words to ease that possibility.

"You've been though a lot in these past weeks - not to mention the past six-and-a-half years. It's going to take some time, Kathryn. But when you're ready, and if it's what you want...you know where to find me."

She seems to cry even more at this, and I guide her to the couch, pull her down with me, next to me, and just hold her. We stay like that for a long time. I'm honestly not sure if it's minutes or hours.

Her tears slow, and after a while, she says, softly - "I don't know what I ever did to deserve...your devotion."

I almost laugh. "Well, that's the thing. You don't have to _do_ anything, really. Love simply _is_."

I feel her smile against my shoulder, and I think, _we've stayed the darkness from overtaking us, for now._ That we're on the right path, anyway.

Her body is warm beside me, and _right_, and I say a silent prayer that she will find her way back here, when she's truly ready. Part of me thinks, _it might actually be sooner rather than later. _Or so my hope goes, anyway.

In the present, as we emerge out from under the heaviness of our conversation, I realize suddenly that I am absolutely starved.

"How about some dinner," I say, though I'm reluctant for either of us to move. She doesn't for a moment, and I briefly wonder if she's fallen asleep. Then I hear her, softly -

"Thank you."

And I know she isn't just referring to dinner.


End file.
